How To Say Goodbye
by GoldenVine
Summary: Sherlock returns to find Molly's flat empty with only a single note left addressed to him. Will he ever see her again, will Molly want to see him? Angsty. Now beta'd.
1. Prologue

**A/N - Sorry this is only short but the plot bunnies wouldn't leave me alone! Its angsty. Reviews are much appreciated. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer - I do not own Sherlock.**

"I've got this crazy idea that maybe if I write down what I'm feeling you might pay attention, or you might not I don't care anymore. I did once. Oh Sherlock, I cared so much, too much. I knew you didn't give me a second look but I still tried. I still wore that stupid lipstick and I still made you coffee but you didn't notice. You were spectacularly ignorant for such a wonderfully clever man. Yet you still allowed me a glimpse of your true emotions. Do you remember the night before the fall? That's what I liked, the human side of you. Not your brains or your talents, no, I liked your humanity. Those rare glimpses of something entirely human underneath the facade, the real you.

I always thought maybe it might work out well in the end. That one day you might notice me and think that I mattered. Tell me that I was beautiful and give me comfort when I needed it, wrap me in your arms and whisper sweet nothings in my ear. I'm not stupid though, I knew it was never going to happen. The false compliments you gave me only lit that hope. Sherlock you were so cruel. I can say that now because I want you to know what you said to me hurt, you used me and I let you. I don't know who I'm more mad at, me or you?

The truth is after you told me I counted I thought things would change. Change for the better. But they didn't. You stayed a couple of days then upped and left. You didn't even say good-bye. Am I really that insignificant I help you fake your death and you don't even acknowledge my existence. You crushed me and I cried. So many times, too many times.

That's why I'm leaving. I have to get a better life I can't wait around for that long, I don't have that much time left. While you were away I did some thinking and I'm moving on. I'm closing the book and starting a new one. A different one and hopefully a better one. I will always have feelings for you, I've come to terms with that but I can't face you right now. I don't know if I ever can to tell you the truth. I doubt if you'll even read this, it wouldn't surprise me if you didn't. You don't care for me and I know that now and it's ok. So I guess this is goodbye sorry I didn't do it in person I would have mucked it up best just go write it down, save my stuttering. We might see each other again Sherlock but if we don't I want to say that you are the most brilliant, beautiful man I have ever known and one day you just might be a good man as well.  
Goodbye.  
Molly x"

A solitary tear escaped his eye and slid down the page smudging the ink as it went.

"No Molly, I care too much."


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N - So I continued it! Plot bunnies, is all I have to say. As always drop a review and tell me what you think! Sorry if you read this before with the awful joined words thing. Have no fear, however, the problem has been fixed. Enjoy!**

**Also a big thank you to my beta TruffleHead, her suggestions were awesome and appreciated! Thanks :)**

**Disclaimer - I do not own Sherlock.**

Some three months after the fall...

Molly had just entered her new flat in Edinburgh. A new start was what she wanted, after all, and ever since she was a child she had wanted to visit Scotland. The picturesque rolling hills surrounded by veils of mist, stony castles illuminated only by the light of a candle**,** and the tales of elves and fairies hiding in woodland glades all had her captivated from the start.

The Scotland she was experiencing now**, **though, was a far cry from what she had originally envisioned. Surprisingly, Edinburgh was a lot like London. It was noisy, over-populated**, **and the streets were always busy. One thing that _was _different, however, was the smell.

London smelt of smog**, **carexhaust, and fresh news print mingled with disinfectant**,** but Edinburgh smelt fresh and... new. New, everything was new**, **and Molly was savouring it. New house, new job, new city, new book. The feeling was refreshing.

Molly strolled over to a box marked 'kitchen' and eagerly fetched her kettle and a box of tea bags from it. She would have to go shopping for milk sometime soon, she realised and groaned internally.

It had been a hard day of moving**, **and all she wanted was to slip into bed and sleep. She couldn't remember the last time she had slept**,** what with all the packing and organising and travelling**;** she simply hadn't had the time. Stumbling back into the living room**, **Molly sat down on her new patchwork sofa and rubbed her eyes wearily - sleep deprivation was catching up with her, but thoughts of the move just wouldn't leave her alone.

She hadn't really had time to do anything at all, not even say goodbye- well**, **not properly. She'd fired off an email to Mary, a friend from Bart's, saying she was leaving and promising an explanation soon, and of course she'd told Mike Stamford she would be resigning. She hadn't told Greg or John, she hadn't dared; if she let something slip**,** then who knows what would have happened. Besides, Molly hadn't spoken to either of them in months. Better safe than sorry**,** her mum had always told her. She had left her mum a voice mail**; **she had probably been too busy with her latest husband to pick up.

She hadleft _him _a note**,** as well. Not that he would read it, if he even found it at all. As Molly drifted off to sleep**, **she couldn't help but think about it. Had Sherlock found the note, after all? Had he even bothered read it**, **or had he been too busy?

That night she was plagued by nightmares of the raven-haired detective to whom she was invisible.

Five months after the fall...

Molly hated working in an office. Her cubicle was small and cheap**, **the computer on her minuscule desk never worked properly**,** and the plastic plant that 'decorated' her office was pathetic.

The only good thing about the office was the colour scheme. The pale grey reminded her of the morgue at Bart's. She missed being a pathologist**,** but a new start meant a new job.

She still worked within the medical trade, sort of. The office work was for a company who supplied medical equipment. Molly spent every Monday to Friday sorting out botched up hospital supply orders and managing complaints about the product. The job on a whole was unsatisfying and boring**,** but at least it was money.

Molly still kept up on her pathology by reading new medical books and papers**,** but it still wasn't the same. She was itching to get back in a lab**,** even to just take Sherlock's coffee order and be bossed around.

Molly laughed bitterly to herself. She hadn't thought of him in weeks. It was getting easier to forget**,** and she was**,** in a way**,** moving on. She had found a new man; his name was Steve. He was a modest civil servant**,** and he doted on her. He was shy and bashful, a bit like Molly really, and the two of them had started a relationship.

She had her new job, her new flat, and even a new favourite coffee shop, but she still found herself checking the newspaper for any sign of _him_**. **She would go home and watch the news for any news on him. She would listen for any rumours of a dark haired stranger roaming the streets.

Of course**,** there never were any**,** but that only made Molly all the more stressed. What if he needed her and she wasn't there?

_Stop being stupid_**,** Molly,she thought to herself, _he couldn't possibly need you. He has Mycroft**,** after all. That man was the British government**;** there was nothing he couldn't do. Sherlock doesn't need bumbling Molly around anymore**. **She would only be getting in the way**.**_

Molly didn't like to linger on these thoughts, not anymore. Those days were over**,** and now she was ready for a new adventure - a normal life.

Seven months after the fall...

Molly's life had been going from strength to strength. She had managed to get a promotion at work**,** and now had a _real _office. With four walls and a door and everything!

She had a real plant this time, too, not a plastic one. It had been a gift from Steve when she got promoted**,** and it sat proudly in her office alongside her recently acquired stress ball. She had been promoted to head of human resources**,** so instead of dealing with complaints**,** she was now hiring and firing. She never thought she would be the boss kind**,** but she actually enjoyed it. It turns out she had learned a few things from a certain consulting detective and was now a much better judge of character. That talent ( if you could call it that ) was what got her the job. She was nowhere near Sherlock's level**,** but she liked to think she was doing alright, nonetheless.

With a new job also came a pay rise**,** and she had decided to treat herself to a new wardrobe**,** of sorts. She still had her cardigans and blouses**,** but now they were teamed with pencil skirts and smart trousers. She also took to wearing small heels in order to appear more corporate. Her hair now had some caramel highlights in it**,** and she had to admit she felt good. She felt less like a child trying to fit into an adult**'**s world and more like a woman standing on her own two feet - oh great, she was becoming a cliché.

She had also gotten used to Edinburgh in the months she had stayed there. She knew which places to avoid**,** and which bakery sold the best cakes. Molly was also getting to grips with some Scottish slang, with some help from Steve, and she had to admit that she could understand local people a whole lot better.

Soon enough**,** she settled into a routine. She would get up in the morning, have a shower, make breakfast, watch the news**,** and then head to work. At the office, she would sit at her desk for a few hours, go to lunch, spend a few hours in meetings**,** and then go back home again where Steve could usually be found making dinner in her flat**'**s small kitchen.

It was a Tuesday when she first heard. She was standing by the water cooler**,** fetching herself a fresh glass**,** when a colleague tapped her on the shoulder.

"Hey**,** have you heard about that guy?" her colleague asked. She vaguely remembered that her name was Rachel from a meeting a few months back.

"Sorry, who?" she answered. Molly did not want to get caught up in office gossip, and if that's where this was heading, she'd have to get away, fast. She had learnt very early on not to hang about the water cooler**,** as that's where the 'gossipy gang' would hang about.

"You know, Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective. Rumour has it he's back**.**" Whispered Rachel**,** as if it were a terrible secret.

"What?" Molly mumbled**,** as she paled and brought a hand to her mouth.

"Yeah, apparently that Moriarty guy was real, so Sherlock's been put back on cases and everything. I saw it on the news this morning."

"Are you sure?" Molly asked quickly.

"Course I'm sure, are you alright? You don't look so good**.**"

"I'm fine, I'll**,** eh**, **see you around."

And with that**,** Molly left, glass of water forgotten.

She raced back to her office and shut the door behind her. It couldn't be, after all these months. Of course Molly knew it was inevitable that Sherlock would return**,** but she had never let herself imagine it. She never thought the day would come when he would be back.

Molly collapsed in her office chair and took a deep breath. It had nothing to do with her anymore**;** she didn't care. She had a new life**,** and she didn't need Sherlock Holmes to remind her of her old one.

She spied the computer out of the corner of her eye, and quickly switched it on to look for the latest news broadcasts. Sure enough**,** there he was 'Genius Detective Rises From The Dead **'. **He'd made front page news. Show-off. Molly stared at the image for a long time before her office phone went off.

"Hello, Molly Hooper speaking. Yes, of course**,** I'll be right there."

Molly turned off her computer and gathered herself. Her life was much better now and this new development didn't change a thing, not one thing.

Or, at least that was what she told herself.


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N - Thankyou so much for all the reviews, story follows and favourites. I never expected such a good response to this story! This chapter is based around Sherlock and it's a bit angsty but as always enjoy!**

**Thankyou also to my wonderful Beta, TruffleHead, for working her beta magic!**

**Disclaimer - I do not own Sherlock. **

4 months after the fall (1 month after finding Molly's note)…

Sherlock sat in a small café in Bordeaux, France, sipping coffee that was both a bit too hot and not quite strong enough. In the months since his fall, Sherlock had travelled all over Europe taking down Moriarty's web; or, at least, he was trying to. For months, he had been travelling from city to city, gathering information about the web, and eventually, if he was lucky, he would capture a member of the network.

However, Moriarty had anticipated that someone, if not Sherlock, would attempt to bring down his web after his demise, so he had put into place security measures to protect his empire. Every time Sherlock attempted to bring down a branch of it, he was stopped by firewalls, encryptions and big scary henchman with big scary guns.

He had thought it would be relatively easy to eradicate any trace of James Moriarty. He had thought that with Moriarty gone, the web would be in complete and utter chaos, his minions aimlessly blundering about without any orders. He'd expected low life scum at the outer reaches of the city working for some mildly intelligent scammers who would be committing mindless crimes, just waiting to be caught.

What had he found, however, was far more complex.

Each individual branch included two collaborating teams: the brains, and the brawn. The 'brains' would deal with the more delicate tasks, such as computer hacking and bringing down security measures, so that the 'brawn' could do the dirty work, like collecting packages acting upon threats.

The two teams on the branch would then report directly to a superior. The superior was usually part of a gang or a sect who would have a few men at their disposal to deal with any hassle. That superior would then report to an informer. The informer would screen the information gathered, and look over a progress report of the team's activities, deciding what to pass on to Mr. Moriarty.

The information would then be passed to Sebastian Moran, an ex army colonel and Moriarty's right hand man, to be assessed. Anything above a seven would be passed on to Moriarty himself, who would be sitting in an oversized office looking important. That was the web, as far as Sherlock understood it.

Some things were still bugging him, though, niggling at the furthest edges of his mind. For example, Sherlock couldn't help but draw comparisons between Moriarty and himself. Two great minds of the 21st century battling against each other. And Moriarty had Moran. A man willing to move the very _earth _to please Moriarty. Sherlock had had John. The operative word being had. That wasn't his life anymore; it couldn't be. He had given up that life the very moment he stepped off the roof of Bart's.

Sherlock still thought about John; how could he not? The biggest part of his life was gone, and it was his own doing. John had always been there for him. A constant in the chaotic, fast flowing torrent of his life. John had been able to reign him in, tell him off when he went too far, and keep him fed and watered when he, himself, neglected to.

John had been his very first friend, and now he had shattered that friendship beyond recognition. Even if he was able to come back from the dead, there was no guarantee that John would still be waiting for him. John deserved a normal life, and Sherlock would just get in the way of that. _I'm better off alone_, Sherlock thought to himself, but he supposed he could always hope.

To add to the chaos that was currently ensuing in his mind palace was the recurring thought of Molly's note. She had left London. Left because she couldn't stand it anymore.

He had ruined her life.

He had known, of course, how she had felt about him; how could he not? The signs were obvious, but he had never acted upon them. He couldn't; he was a sociopath, after all. He didn't have these feelings. Admittedly, he did _care_ for some people, namely John and Mrs Hudson, but that was different, and he certainly did not care for his pathologist.

Molly had loved him, though. Perhaps Molly would be the only person to _ever_ truly love him-and not just for his talent, like The Woman had. But no, he stopped that train of thought instantly. He would not allow himself to think that way. He did not care for Molly Hooper- small, mousy Molly Hooper from the morgue.

He had shed a tear when reading her note-he had found himself... feeling something, a gentle, but persistent little tug in his chest - but that had been a moment of weakness. A blip in the circuitry of his fine- wired brain. But if that was so, why couldn't he get the image of Molly Hooper's face out of his thoughts?

Goodness, the situation must be getting to him. Yes, that was it, it had to be.

Sherlock finished off his mediocre coffee and exited the café. As soon as he was outside, he lit up a cigarette and blew out a puff of smoke. He observed the simple people milling about in the town centre. A lawyer, a pastry chef, and a student; no deep dark secrets to unearth. The people in this town were terribly good natured and easy going; it was so different from what he was used to in London.

_The situation is affecting me more than I thought; I'm getting sentimental, _Sherlock scoffed at himself as he meandered down the small alleyways towards the B&B he was staying in.

Sherlock brought out his phone and sent off a quick text to Mycroft who, much to Sherlock's chagrin, had helped him quite a lot since his 'death'. Mycroft had provided him with documents so he could leave the country, and even brute force when it was needed.

Coming home. No more leads here. Have my room ready. - SH

2 weeks after his resurrection...

They had kept it quiet at first. Sherlock had decided there was no point of staying in hiding; Moriarty's network that had been in London had been dealt with anyway, but one man still remained - Moran.

Sebastian Moran was eluding Sherlock. Sherlock would hear whispers and rumours of a tall, muscular blonde man hanging around various criminal haunts, but he could never manage to track down the man himself. Sherlock had gotten so worked up that he had taken to not speaking for days at a time; all his time and energy had been dedicated to tracking down Moran.

In the end, Sherlock worked out a deal, although grudgingly, with Mycroft. Any information Mycroft was able to acquire about Moran's whereabouts would be passed directly onto Sherlock. Unbeknownst to Sherlock, there were also high- end security measures placed upon himself and the three people who were originally targeted: Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and John. Mycroft could not stand the possibility of him losing his brother again to this man, and not to mention there was loads of information that could be gained from Moran if Mycroft's men did indeed get a hold of him.

So Sherlock came out of hiding in an attempt to lure Moran out; dangling the bait in front of the sniper's nose and hoping he would be vengeful enough to take it. It seemed the only way to get the sniper to come out from behind enemy lines and give Sherlock a chance, no matter how slim, to take him down. If Moriarty wasn't around to pay for what he had done to Sherlock in the past seven months, then Moran would have to do.

However, there were some problems. Sherlock's return was not received well. In fact, it went the opposite of well. He thought it better to show up at 221 B in person, rather than have Mycroft do it.

At first, John had just stared in disbelief at how his friend had returned from the dead, but then, he had gotten angry- really angry. Sherlock had expected this, however, and had braced himself for the punch that landed straight on his jaw. He had not expected the second, though, or the third. After John had tired himself out, there was a lot of choked sobs and a few angry words; from both men.

At the end of John's outburst, Sherlock finally had a chance to really look at his friend. John was a lot slimmer than usual, dark circles outlined his eyes and more wrinkles had appeared around his frown line, and the flat was a mess. Sherlock could see what John had been through, and he felt guilt. For the first time in his life he experienced guilt, deep down in the pit of his stomach, and it wouldn't go away. Sherlock didn't know if it would ever leave him.

After the initial shock was over, John was much more talkative. They talked for hours on end about how he faked his death, why he hadn't told John, and what he had done for the past seven months. John also told him about Mary Morstan, a nurse he had met a week ago, and how they met. Sherlock did not usually indulge in such chatter, but somehow he found it comforting to have John back to talk to although John had made it clear that he was still angry with him and would need time to think properly once he had slept.

Lestrade had taken the news much the same way, but he was also _very _glad that Sherlock was back. Lestrade had been disgraced at Scotland Yard for still believing in Sherlock after the fall. He had been demoted to a _desk sergeant_! He couldn't wait to show his superiors the file Sherlock had handed him, proving Richard Brook was a fake and that James Moriarty was the real criminal nehind it all. He had asked Sherlock how he managed to get this evidence, but he had only received a, "Best not to ask, Lestrade," from Sherlock, who had then promptly walked away.

When he had revealed himself to Mrs Hudson, at first she had simply slapped him, but then she had hugged him tightly and scorned him for all the trouble he put everyone through. The whole ordeal had involved a profuse amount of apologizing on his end.

It was now, sitting in his armchair, that Sherlock allowed himself to enter his mind palace. The last few days had been unsettling to say the least, and Sherlock desperately needed to organize his thoughts. It wasn't long, though, with his mind wandering, that Molly Hooper came to the fore again. He found himself wondering where she was. He could easily get Mycroft to find out exactly where she was, and probably what she was doing as well, but she wanted to be left alone; didn't she? He _would _leave her alone. After all, he didn't need her, anyway. He told himself that he was just curious and that he harboured no feelings whatsoever toward the pathologist, and that she could do what she wanted with her life; it was none of his business. A strange stirring sensation, though, was beginning in his gut. Was it more guilt? No, this was different. A strange sort of tingling sensation creeping towards his chest...

_Stop it_, Sherlock urged himself, _you do not need these feelings or stirrings, whatever they are; ignore them._

And that was what he did. Sherlock got up from his armchair and picked up his violin, caressing the wood as he gently lifted it to his neck. He brought the bow to the strings and softly eased out a melody from the instrument.

_It's good to be back._


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N - First of all a big thank you to all the reviewers - , Myseybee (X2), magicestrikes (X2), Curlycupgumweed, daisherz365, Zora Arian, shepweir always, Maddi, hiddlestunned, BritLitChick and Guest. Thankyou all so much!**

**Enjoy the chapter and remember to tell me what you guys think!**

**Big thanks to my beta TruffleHead, for finding the words I can't.**

**Discalimer - I do not own Sherlock.**

John sat down in his favoured armchair, exhausted from a long day gallivanting around London trying to keep up with the notoriously easy to lose Sherlock Holmes. To say it had been a strange few weeks would have been an understatement. His supposedly 'dead' best friend had decided to pop in for a little chat. And then John proceeded to punch him. Ok, John may have overreacted at the time, but Sherlock deserved it for being such a colossal idiot in the first place.

John was still getting used to Sherlock being around again; the violin was a new constant source of irritation and the kitchen was once again a bio-hazard, but John took a strange sense of comfort in these things. He was glad to have his friend back, and he had to remember to be thankful; it's not every day someone comes back from the dead.

John just hoped _Moriarty _hadn't done the same. For if Sherlock could fake his death, surely Moriarty could, too?

No. Moriarty was dead. He _shot_ himself, and not even a consulting criminal, with all his little tricks and mind games, could survive that. John hated to admit it, but he was glad Moriarty was dead. Moriarty was worse than evil- John couldn't even think of a word colourful enough to describe him- and the world was truly a safer place without him in it. As if to prove this true, crime rates in London had significantly dropped. It seemed as if the criminal world was mourning over the loss of its leader. Subsequently causing Sherlock to tackle the whole criminal underworld so as to escape the clutches of boredom.

Since Sherlock came back and was proved to be the real deal (John suspected Mycroft played a major part in this,) he had been taking cases left, right, and centre. And all manner of cases, too, ranging from petty thefts to ritualistic serial killers- and of course John had been the designated sidekick for all of them, resulting in his current state of sleep deprived confusion. He vaguely heard someone muttering and looked up to see Sherlock pacing hurriedly from one side of the room to the other.

"We need to go to Edinburgh, according to Lestrade. And why couldn't he just get his _officers _to do it? Oh that's right; I had to open my mouth. Well, serves him right for letting Anderson touch my crime scene. He's even more irritating than before, with the added feature of a hideous beard, and he had the nerve to tell me off for contamination! Someone really ought to tell him that his beard looks like it was stuck on by a two year old using tissue paper and glue. Now, I have to go to Edinburgh to bring down a simple drugs ring that could easily be dealt with by the actual police," Sherlock bellowed as his pacing slowed and his volume rose, "This is not necessary!"

"Hold on Sherlock, what are you on about?" John asked, slumping a little more into his armchair and placing his union jack pillow on his knee, he was tired from the constant bombardment of cases over the past few weeks, and couldn't quite bring himself to listen to Sherlock rantings. He just wished Sherlock would let him have five minutes rest to have a nice cup of tea and maybe a quick nap, possibly a jammy dodger and a small…

"John, were you even listening to me?" Sherlock said, glaring at John who was obviously letting his mind wander and not concentrating in the least on what Sherlock was saying. Sighing, Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose, "Did it ever occur to you that what I'm saying might actually be _important_ to our case?"

"You said something about criminals and Edinburgh?" John guessed, hoping that he was right.

"Lucky guess, John," the detective said sarcastically. "As I was saying, the drugs ring we are investigating, if you can remember, is using a medical supplies company based in Edinburgh to smuggle drugs into England and sell them. The whole operation is quite frankly a sham, and it should be easy to bring them down from the inside."

"So," John yawned, "Get Lestrade to send the drug squad in, he's been promoted again hasn't he, so he could do that, yeah?"

"Yes, he has but he wants to send us to do it, instead. I believe it's payback for something I might have said."

"What?" John groaned as realisation dawned on his sluggish mind, "Who did you insult this time?"

"I told Lestrade about his wife's numerous affairs, and yes, there is more than one, John, and I also had the good sense to inform Anderson that his IQ has depleted even more so since I've been away, as is shown by the caveman beard occupying a vast amount of his rat-like face," Sherlock said as he stood, looking strangely proud of himself for managing to tick everyone off - again.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, "You can't just blurt out whatever you think when it's going to hurt someone! Lestrade just got _back_ with his wife- and then you go and expose her affairs? Why can't you just pretend not to notice?"

"Surely, if I were to ignore the blatantly obvious and lie to him, then when Lestrade _did_, inevitably, find out, it would be worse for him. Really, I'm just saving him pain in the grand scheme of things."

"No Sherlock, you're not. We've had this conversation before, and yet you still don't get it. Phone Lestrade and apologise about your actions. We'll still have to go to Edinburgh, but it'll only be for a couple of days- and you will owe me one, Sherlock, since this _is_, technically, your fault!" John chastised as he made his way to the kitchen. He was going to need something a bit stronger than tea this time.

Sherlock scoffed incredulously from the living room, "And I suppose you will have me apologise to _Anderson_,as well?"

"No, I do agree with you about the beard." John answered, and he heard Sherlock chuckle quietly he opened the fridge, "Sherlock," John called, sighing, "_Why_ are there dead rats in the fridge?"

"Don't touch them. Experiment." Called Sherlock ,who was now lying languidly across the couch in his signature 'thinking pose'.

"What, was Molly not providing you with enough human body parts to occupy your interest?" John said, snorting to himself as he sat down, a cold beer in hand.

"She's not here," Sherlock mumbled.

"What?"

"I said, she is _not here_," said Sherlock, being careful to pronounce each word.

"What do you mean? Is she on holiday?" John queried.

"No John, she's gone."

John was not able to deduce like Sherlock, but he was sure he detected a hint of sadness in his friend's voice. Just the briefest moment of melancholy before his usual clipped tone returned.

"Molly has moved away, John, I'm surprised you didn't notice. She had had enough of London, and so she left. She doesn't want to be followed. To answer your inevitable question, I know this because she left me a note. I already told you she helped fake my death, hence her knowledge of my presence, and she merely wanted to explain to me why she had left.

"I don't know why, her leaving has not affected me nor will it affect me; I just have to go elsewhere for decent body parts. Now don't speak, John, I'm entering my mind palace. Be quiet." Sherlock announced, turning his back on John and entering said mind palace. He didn't inform John of the details on the note, and he absolutely did not tell John he was entering his mind palace to think about Molly and the note.

John felt bad, really bad. He had been so wrapped up in his own world of grief and despair he had forgotten about the others around him. Poor Molly; John knew that she had obviously loved Sherlock, everyone knew, but he should have checked up on her or taken her up on her offer for help; he had been selfish. John hadn't even noticed Molly had gone; what did that say about him? Sherlock had obviously been affected by her leaving, and yet he hadn't even _noticed_ her absence. He was a horrible person.

"Stop thinking John, you aren't the only person who didn't notice." Sherlock said as he got up from the coach and went to his room, slamming his bedroom door behind him. John knew that he wasn't imagining the grief in the detective's tone.

Whatever Molly's note had said, it had obviously touched a raw nerve with Sherlock; you didn't have to be a genius to see that. Had no-one really noticed? John took a sip of his beer and rubbed his eyes. He put the beer down and clutched his union jack pillow to his chest as a comfort. He quickly fell asleep, dreaming about the invisible girl.


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N - Thanks to my reviewers Dasherz365 ad Zora Arian, you guys are awesome! Some humour in this chapter cos boy is there a lot of angst to come! Read and Review! Enjoy!**

**Thanks to the wonderful TruffleHead, my beta.**

**Disclaimer - I still don't own Sherlock.**

Molly's eyes fluttered open as the first beams of sunlight shone through her blinds and danced upon her dainty features. Stifling a yawn, she smiled wearily as she remembered where she was: wrapped in Steve's arms. She was currently cocooned in a blanket of warmth and just the thought of having to get up made her grimace.

She glanced to her alarm clock- it was five minutes to six. Good, that meant she could have another five warm minutes in bed before, inevitably, she had to get up.

Molly could feel Steve's chest gently rise and fall as he snoozed beside her; he wasn't an early riser, unlike her, and if she'd let him, he would gladly sleep late into the afternoon. She didn't mind, though. She overlooked all of Steve's minor faults and instead took in the bigger picture of the man curled around her.

He was nothing like Sherlock- that much was for sure. Steve was slightly smaller height wise, but he was easily more muscular than Sherlock, even if he did hide it under granddad vests and knitted jumpers. Steve was also caring and kind- something Sherlock never was. All Sherlock ever did was cut her down with his cruel deductions and derisive snorts; he would even bloody /manipulate/ her to get what he wanted. How had she ever fallen for that?

Steve epitomised Molly's dream man; she could actually see a future with him. She could get married to this man, have a couple of kids, buy a bigger house, and then, /most/ importantly, live happily ever after. Molly giggled at her childish notion and reached out a hand to switch off her alarm's incessant beeping.

"Morning," Steve said groggily, shaking off the last remnants of sleep.

"Morning," Molly replied cheerfully, smiling up at Steve.

"What time is it?" Steve said, giving a bright smile in return.

"Six o'clock. Go back to bed, you don't have to be up for another hour. You're grumpy if you don't get enough sleep." Molly said teasingly as she kissed his forehead. Silently, she slipped out of bed and headed towards the bathroom. She needed to shower and eat before work, she told her tired limbs. She had a feeling today was going to be a long day, she already knew a stack of paperwork was waiting was patiently waiting for her to sort through it.

She took one last look at Steve, asleep and now snoring softly against his pillow, and then closed the bathroom door as quietly as she could, a contented smile spread across her face.

* * *

"John, wake up. The sooner we get this over with, the better." Grumbled Sherlock, all but dragging a sleepy John from the train. John had dozed off about fifteen minutes after they left London, leaving Sherlock to entertain himself for the next seven hours and forty-five minutes of the train journey to Edinburgh. Selfish.

The scenery had been dull on the train journey, and after going past the sixty-seventh field and the four-hundred-and-eighty-seventh sheep, Sherlock had given up looking out the window and instead turned his attention to the people sitting in the train carriage. After giving them a once over, he realized that the people were all as dull as the scenery.

There was a family of four consisting of a husband, wife, and two noisy children sitting down one end of the carriage, and down the other were three nuns talking excitedly about something that had obviously piqued their interest. In the two seats across from himself and John sat a woman of about forty years old who seemed to of taken an interest in Sherlock judging by the way she kept glancing at him over the top of her thick-rimmed glasses, and in the other seat sat a plump businessman who was clicking away on a laptop, obviously checking emails and sending out instructions to his subordinates. The rest of the carriage was empty, save for the automatic toilet that occupied a large space beside the family of four.

So, it was safe to say Sherlock was elated when they finally got off the train, hence his dragging of John down the platform, and then out of the train station altogether.

"Right, so, what's the plan?" John asked, the fresh air bringing him to his senses.

"We find a cab and head to the medical supplies offices; I believe they are not far from here. Then we will acquire a list of employees, and by the names I will work out who the smugglers are. They are obviously working at the offices, probably in the shipping department, although I wouldn't rule out the involvement of someone higher up in the company. If we bring one of them in, they will most likely confess the names of their associates as they are amateur criminals and will be scared by the prospect of jail. The case will be done, and then we can get back to London." Sherlock explained as he looked around and took in the most obvious landmarks.

There were plenty black taxis about, so Sherlock thought that it shouldn't be too hard to flag one down. Sherlock stuck out his hand as a taxi whizzed past him, not bothering to stop for him or to even acknowledge him. Another taxi then hurtled past his hand followed in quick succession by another two, who didn't stop for him either. Sherlock was silently aware of John giggling to the side of him. Sherlock sent him his best cold stare and turned his attention back to the road where yet more taxis were bypassing him. Was there a different hand signal in Scotland when one wanted a taxi?

Sherlock was so astonished, he didn't notice when John stuck out his hand, only to have a taxi stop right beside him.

Sherlock followed John into the taxi, quickly gave the driver the address, and then turned his attention to the window, as John was still giggling childishly.

"Well, looks like I've got the magic touch in Scotland." Blabbed John as he thought about his friend's inability to flag down a taxi.

"Yes, well," Snorted Sherlock, refusing to look at John, slightly put out by his failure.

The rest of the taxi journey was spent in an agreeable silence.

* * *

A short twenty minutes later, Sherlock and John were striding into the metallic offices of the dodgy medical supplies company. Sherlock strode up to the receptionist, who happened to be a very harsh looking ginger woman in her late 50's, and put on his most endearing smile.

"Hello, we are hoping to see someone who can help with our investigation." Sherlock said, leaning on the desk. He was going to have to work hard to get this woman to co-operate, as her husband had just left her judging by the ring indent on her marriage finger.

"What are your names?" She asked in a broad Scottish accent.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, and this is Dr John Watson, my colleague." Sherlock said, indicating to the doctor who was standing to his right.

"What are you here for; you mentioned an investigation?"

"Ah yes, we are here as part of Scotland Yard, sent to investigate a drugs ring that we believe might be operating in this building."

"We had a phone call to tell us you would be coming. Sit over there and wait for a company representative who will be coming down to meet you." The woman said, pointing to a small waiting area with five square chairs and a plastic shrub.

Two hours and five Scottish people later, they were finally going to meet the head of human resources, who they were reliably informed could "get ye yer list o' employees" and would be able to help should they need more information.

As they were being led down a pale grey corridor that was lined with offices on both sides, the current office worker felt the need to talk.

"You'll like her; she's originally from London, and actually very kind. That's more than can be said about most people here. Well, I suppose I would consider myself as kind, as well," The woman said, and Sherlock silently rolled his eyes, "Actually, if you wanted, I could give you a list of at least thirty people that could be classed as 'dodgy'. You know, just to speed the investigation along a bit."

"Yes, thank you for your input, but seeing as we are solving a case based on facts and not who you wish to bunk off, we shall not be needing your little list." Sherlock replied cuttingly. He had had quite enough of getting shunted around; he just wanted to obtain the list and leave.

The office worker regarded Sherlock with a raised eyebrow. "Well here we are then, I'll just leave you to it." She snapped, beating a hasty retreat and muttering curses to herself as she went. Sherlock sighed and made to open the door.

"Sherlock, you have to knock first!" Ordered John, making Sherlock roll his eyes; he wasn't used to obeying social niceties.

Sherlock knocked on the door sarcastically, if that was even possible, waited until he heard someone shout come in from inside the office, and then decided to enter purposefully; he wanted to get this over as quickly as he could.

"I am Sherlock Holmes. I require a list of all your employees, if you will." Sherlock said to the back of a woman who looked strangely familiar, but he couldn't quite place her. It was as if he was seeing a slightly different version of someone who he knew, but couldn't put his finger on exactly who- it was extremely irritating.

The woman froze and calmly put down the paperwork she had been re-organising on her desk. She exhaled slowly as she turned around, her heart still not quite believing it was who her brain said it was. But her eyes could not be lied to. It was him.

"Sherlock?" Molly squeaked, barely audible over the sound of the heartbeat pounding in her chest.

Realisation dawned on Sherlock the moment she turned round, "Molly?" He gasped, not willing to believe his eyes.

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	6. Chapter 5

**A/N - Wow, thankyou all for your wonderful reviews - Ssmill, magicstrikes, almightyswot, daisherz365, IAmSherlocked123, louisethelibrarian, Lilelvis, MadAsAHatterJayy, TheDayItRayne's, Rose Detyler, Amalia Kensington, friend2friend1 and patemalah21. You are wonderful people! Here comes the angst as promised, more to follow. Read and review, enjoy!**

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**Disclaimer - After 5 chapters, I still don't own Sherlock.**

Sherlock had been stunned into silence exactly twice in all his thirty-three years, and both times by this very same Ms Molly Hooper. The first time was when she correctly deduced him just a day before his confrontation with Moriarty. Sherlock had retreated to his room for hours after that conversation, trying to figure out how Molly had done it-how on earth she could have read his emotions when his face had remained void of feeling. On that day, Molly had brought down his barriers and had allowed a miniscule amount of emotion to trickle out before Sherlock could stop it. That ordeal had been confusing for both of them, and Sherlock was still trying to pin down the reason for the small pathologists influence over him.

The second time was happening now. Molly was standing before him with those wide doe eyes that he had seen so often; yet now, they were out of disbelief- not admiration. Molly had changed physically, opting for a more mature sense of fashion, but Sherlock could not tell if she had really changed, inside. He hoped not; although why he hoped, he did not know.

The silence in the office was deafening; neither Molly nor Sherlock dared to open their mouths. Sherlock for fear of what might come out, and Molly out of pure shock. It was John who eventually broke the silence.

"Molly, is it really you?" He asked, more out of his need to break the silence than anything else.

"Of course it is her." Sherlock snapped, not bothering to tear his eyes away from Molly's small form.

"Hi, John." Molly spoke quietly, choosing her words carefully in a vain attempt to stop Sherlock from deducing too much. She wasn't sure why she was so shocked to see them. Ever since Sherlock's resurrection she had been expecting a visit, or a phone call at least. She half expected the police to show up at her door and question her about her part in his death; she even prepared what she would tell them. No-one had called though; she hadn't heard from any of them. Not one of them bothered about her.

Now that Sherlock stood before her, all curly hair and swishy coat, she felt sick. Seeing him here reminded her of her other life, in London. Yes, she missed being a pathologist, but she hadn't missed these feelings.

All of a sudden, she felt a rush of emotions she hadn't felt in a long time. She was confused and angry and sad all at the same time. A whirlwind of raging emotions stirred inside her, each one fighting for dominance. It was all Sherlock's fault. He did this to her every time.

"Molly, are you okay?" Asked John.

"Hmm? Oh, yes, I'm fine; sorry, what were you saying?" Molly stuttered as she played with the hem of her jumper, twiddling it between her fingers nervously.

"I was just saying that it's good to see you." John said with a grin that looked entirely genuine. Molly almost felt bad for leaving John after Sherlock's death; he must have gone through hell. Still, that's what she moved to avoid and now Sherlock bloody Holmes was bringing it all back, the feelings she had buried not so long ago all brought back to the surface.

"No, what were you saying before that?" She quipped. She needed them to leave, or they were going to ruin everything she had worked so hard to establish.

"Oh, well, we're here on a case, and we were told you could get us a list of employees. Sherlock thinks he can tell who the culprits are by looking at their names." John replied, chancing a look at Sherlock, only to see the detective staring pointedly at the floor.

Molly quickly moved around to her desk and brought up a list of employees on her computer. She was happy to have something to do, even if her fingers were shaking. "Yes, I can get you that. It'll have to print it off downstairs though, the printers in this place never work right, so we have to send all print outs down to the main reception or they will print with stupid ink lines across them. I'll, just...emm, nip down and get them for you once they're printed."

Molly was rambling and she knew it, but what was she supposed to do? Two men she thought she would never see again- or actually, more like _made sure _she would never see again- were standing in her office, and suddenly she had reverted back to old Molly. Little stuttering Molly who never stood up for herself. Well, she wasn't having it this time.

She took longer than usual shutting down her computer- she thought she might as well go home anyway; her shift finished in ten minutes and she was _not_ staying late for Sherlock Holmes, not this time.

"Right, they should have printed by now. I'll get them on my way out." She said, gathering her trench-coat and handbag from under her desk.

"No, John will go." Sherlock said, still looking straight ahead and as indifferent as ever.

"What?" John and Molly uttered simultaneously.

"John, we passed through the reception area on our way in; surely you haven't forgotten? Just ask at the desk, I'm sure they will give them to you."

"But, do you not…"

Sherlock cut John off mid-sentence, "Go, John. I'll meet you outside."

John looked at Sherlock, who had not shifted once since they walked into the office. He wasn't acting like the Sherlock he knew, and that frightened John. He was quite sure that whatever was happening was due to Molly's presence, but thought better of broaching the subject for now.

Sighing in surrender, John said, "Right. It was great to see you Molly- keep in touch, this time." Laughing nervously, he turned to exit.

"Goodbye, John." The timid voice of Molly sounded from behind him.

John nodded and left, thankful to get out of the small office where the tension could be cut with safety scissors, not to mention a knife.

After a few minutes, it was Sherlock who finally spoke. "I got your note." He stated, looking Molly in the eye.

Molly shrank away from his piercing gaze before mentally scolding herself for doing so. She was not weak anymore, and she would show him. "I didn't expect you to."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"Don't know, I guess I didn't think you would come back."

"I came back to your flat to inform you about my progress, and to tell you I was still safe you had asked me to keep you informed." He paused, and his eyes flicked again to the floor before returning to her. "But you weren't there."

"I know. But it doesn't matter now." She said, glancing away from his eyes but standing her ground.

"I'm sorry, Molly." Sherlock blurted out, before he had time to stop himself.

"What?" Molly asked, her head whipping up to finally meet his gaze; she was too shocked by his revelation to bother about being under his scrutiny.

"I'm sorry, Molly. For everything. I was rude and unappreciative towards you when I should have respected you as an equal. I am truly sorry and I hope you can accept my apology." He said slowly, not wanting to trip over his words; he was only doing what was expected in this situation, wasn't he?

"Well, thanks- thank you. That means a lot, Sherlock." Molly wasn't quite sure why he was doing this; he needn't apologise- but maybe she _did_ mean something to him, after all? He had told her she counted, hadn't he?

No, she wasn't going to think about that right now. Anyway, he could never reciprocate the feelings she once had, so why surmise about it?

She looked at Sherlock now, really looked. He was facing her, but his hands were tucked behind his back. He was looking in her direction, but his gaze was distant. She wished she was able to tell what he was thinking; it would make this situation a whole lot easier.

Molly was cut from her train of thought by Sherlock asking a question rather bluntly, seeming to pluck it out of thin air, but Molly knew better. Sherlock Holmes never did anything out of impulse; it was always premeditated.

"Will you be returning to London?"

Molly didn't even have to think about her answer, "No."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, put out by her sharp answer.

"I've got a life here now. There's no need for me to go back."

"What about your career; pathology? You are not happy working here, _that_ much is obvious. You can't just turn your back on the profession you worked so hard for! What will I do if I need help in the lab or access to body parts? There will be no-one there to give me that access, so what would I do then?" Sherlock asked. He knew he was being selfish and unreasonable, but he was annoyed about not being able to conduct his experiments. Surely that was the feeling that was building in his chest? Yes, he was angry that she would just leave him behind; that accounted for the strange feeling.

"That's your problem, not mine. I'm sure your brother could sort it out for you." She retorted, leaning against her desk and folding her arms defensively across her chest.

"Probably, but I want you." Sherlock stressed, apparently unaware of the double meaning in his statement.

"Is this what this is about? You need me to get access to bodies for your little experiments and goodness knows what else? Mousy Molly Hooper who always lets you get your own way; little Molly Hooper, always too love struck to say no. Well, you're too late, Sherlock- she's gone. I've got a new life now, and I do /not/ need you coming in here and ruining it for me!" Molly shouted, her courage growing with every word she spoke.

Sherlock noticed the defensive tone of her voice, and the way she fiddled with the silver chain around her neck as she spoke. Obviously a present from a man. Ah, that was it? She had bagged herself a man as soon as she had moved up here, judging by the size and price of the gift. Stupid, why hadn't he noticed sooner?

"What is his name?" Sherlock asked, already certain of his deduction.

"Steve. Steve Hunter." Molly answered, unsure of how Sherlock had known. Then again, he _was_ a consulting detective; knowing things he shouldn't was part of his job.

Molly was growing uneasy; she would _not_ let him pick apart the life she had built for herself now- not after she had worked so hard for it.

"Am I to assume he is not a criminal?" Sherlock stated, gaining back his composure after his deduction.

"No, he's not. He is a civil servant, he's kind, he's generous, and he _loves_ me." Molly spat.

"But you don't love him."

Molly was startled by Sherlock's bluntness; yes, the detective could be cold, but now he was simply being cruel. If he were any other man, Molly would have mistaken the tone for one of jealousy, but this was Sherlock Holmes. The man who declared _himself_ a sociopath.

"Yes…I do," She replied meekly, "Listen, Sherlock, you can't just waltz in here and expect me to drop everything. I might have done that before, but that's in the past. I won't let you destroy my life now. I waited for you to notice me for _three years_, Sherlock- _three bloody years_. Well, enough is enough. I'm not waiting anymore. I was in love with you Sherlock, but not anymore. I'm sorry, I _really_ am, but you're too late. If you really do respect me now, then respect my decision and stay away from me.

One day, you might feel something for someone else, Sherlock and I hope that you are not stupid enough to ignore it. You are a man, Sherlock, not a machine. Remember that. Now, John will be waiting for you; you'd better go." Molly inhaled deeply and held Sherlock's gaze. She would not back down now, not if this was the last time she ever saw Sherlock.

"I do respect your decision. Goodbye, Molly Hooper." Sherlock said solemnly. And with that, he walked out of the door, leaving a gust of air to wash over Molly.

"Goodbye, Sherlock." She all but whispered. He had already gone, though, leaving her to collapse in her chair and cry. She wasn't sure _why_ she was crying; she just knew that she had to.

As Sherlock made his way downstairs, he bypassed John who yelled his name and started after him. He was in no mood to talk. What had Molly Hooper done too him? She had poisoned him, his mind was no longer on the case, and he craved a cigarette.

Caring is not an advantage.

Suddenly, he heard his brother's motto echo through his mind. Yes, caring was not an advantage, but he didn't care for Molly. Yes, he respected her professionally after her assistance during his 'death', but he didn't care for her. He couldn't care for her.

Sherlock practically flew out of the building and jumped into a conveniently parked taxi. He didn't even notice John get in the taxi with him, and certainly didn't acknowledge his friend's questions about what had happened. He still needed to figure that out for himself.

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	7. Chapter 6

**A/N - Lovely reviewers, I thank you! - MadAsAHatterJayy, patemalah21, Lucy of Gallifrey, magicstrikes, louisethelibrarian, childoftheriver, mycatsaninja47 (X5), Kataraang0, Zora Arian (X2), Myseybee and TheDayItRayne's**

**Dear Rayne - Nice to meet you too ps I don't think any of these names are our real names because that would be pretty weird of my name was actually GoldenVine**

**Enjoy this chapter!**

**Disclaimer - Again, I don't own Sherlock.**

It had been a difficult evening, and an even _more_ difficult morning for one resident of 221b Baker Street-namely, John Watson.

Now, John Watson was a tolerant fellow. He could- and had-dealt with Sherlock in one of his moods before. But it had never been anything like this. Before, Sherlock's moods would be likened to a teenage strop as Sherlock, the biggest child of them all, would storm around the flat slamming doors and enforcing the silent treatment on John for days on end.

On one of those particular days, John would sit and enjoy the peace and quiet from not having the detective around 24/7. John would also be quite laidback; the detective was always sure to bounce back once a case came in. Right now, however, John was actually _worried_. He had never seen his friend act like _this _before.

Sherlock hadn't spoken at all since he talked with Molly the day before. John had immediately bombarded him with questions about what was going on, but he got no answer in either the taxi or the train. The only answer he'd actually gotten was in the taxi back to 221b, and even then, it was only a shrug. John tried interrogating him, albeit through the detective's bedroom door, but all he got was silence. Sherlock was very good at being quiet when he wanted to be. After a few hours, John had given up; he wasn't going to get an answer out of Sherlock, so why bother?

So then, John was left with hours on end of complete and utter _silence_ to had pondered for a brief amount of time whether to phone Molly or not. If he phoned her, he could ask how she was and maybe she would let slip what their conversation had been about. Then again, he didn't have her number, and he doubted Sherlock did. Even if Sherlock _did _have her number, there was no way he would tell him; not in his current state anyway.

John desperately wanted to know what on earth was going on between the two, but it seemed as if he was at a dead end. If he knew what was actually _happening_, he could help them-Sherlock wasn't an expert with women ,and John was only too aware of that.

He sat down in his favourite armchair and sighed. When had he gotten so involved in Sherlock's personal life? Well, he wasn't really involved, was he? It was more like he was being shut out-literally. He doubted anyone would ever truly understand the inner workings of Sherlock's brain, but he had to admit that he would love to know. He would love to know just what his mind palace looked like. John thought that maybe it looked sort of like a big corridor with lots of different doors leading off to different parts of his brain. Like every individual room was filled with things relating to certain subjects, but things were rarely how you imagined them to be. Perhaps it was more like a super computer sorting facts into different files; that would explain the hand gestures.

A sudden crash brought John out of his musings.

"Sherlock!" John shouted, immediately rising to his feet and banging on Sherlock's bedroom door.

"I'm fine, John. Go away." Came the short reply from the detective.

"You can't stay in there for the rest of your life, Sherlock, come out and talk to me." John pleaded.

"Your concern is touching, John." Sherlock replied sarcastically, "I shall be out soon, now leave."

John sighed in defeat and walked back in to the living room. One day, he was going to have a heart attack and it would be Sherlock's fault. As John strolled past Sherlock's desk, a small piece of crumpled pink paper fluttered to the ground.

John looked at the piece of paper, which he _should _just put on Sherlock's desk and say no more about it, but John has always been a curious man, and that curiosity had reared its head at the site of this small piece of paper.

John crouched down and picked it up, turning it over in his hand to read it. It was a note written on pink paper with a small daisy in the corner ._From a girl, _John thought. Why would Sherlock have a note from a _gir_/?

Upon reading the note, his eyes widened in realization; it was the note Molly had left for him the day she moved.

"This is worse than I thought." John mumbled, glancing toward the detective's bedroom.

* * *

Molly slammed the door to her flat and threw her coat at the stand, not bothering to see if it landed on the hook or just slumped to the floor. After discarding her bag and practically smashing the bowl putting her keys back, she entered the small kitchen and poured herself a generous glass of red wine that she had saved for a special occasion.

Why does he do this? Every stinking time.

Molly sat at the island in her kitchen and twiddled with the stem of her glass. Her eyes were red and puffy and her throat hurt from sobbing, but she didn't care. She just wanted to forget. To forget Sherlock Holmes with his deductions and his piercing blue eyes and his richbaritone voice. She screamed in frustration; she had been doing _so well _until he came and ruined _everything._

Why is it always me?

She thought to herself as she poured herself another glass.

It was true; Steve loved her- he really, truly loved her. He remembered her birthday, he gave her wonderful gifts, he surprised her with romantic dinners and tickets to see shows; no man had ever done that for her before…but he wasn't Sherlock. She cursed herself for thinking like that-Steve was wonderful and all she could ever want- but he lacked _something_.

He was safe. Not that that was a bad thing, but Sherlock would protect her from harm and she wouldn't be in danger as long as she stayed with Steve. Molly had never considered herself a thrill seeker, but she missed the excitement of London. Even though she wasn't involved in the cases, she would still hear about them. She would still get to re-live the thrill and excitement of the case through someone else. Sometimes she could even help with cases; use her expertise with the dead to help the living. She loved when she could help them-she'd forgotten that.

She sat down and looked about her Edinburgh flat. It was small and cramped, especially with Steve staying, she didn't especially like the floral wallpaper, and the way that the flat was set out was just uncomfortable. She much preferred her flat back in London.

The realization hit her like a bus. She didn't like Edinburgh, she liked _London_. She had always liked London. She only moved because had it seemed logical, and she couldn't take it anymore. The pressure and the constant reminder that Sherlock was alive but others were grieving for him; keeping his secret had gotten to be too much-but now he was back so she had no secret to keep.

In that moment, she made a decision. She was moving back to London. And _not _just because of Sherlock, but because she _missed_ it. She missed all of it and she wanted it back, desperately. But then again, she might not be able to get her flat _or_ her job back; what would she do then? And it wasn't definite that Sherlock even _liked_ her-she was just hoping. He _had_ hinted about it, though, hadn't he? And the look in his eyes when he said goodbye was…sad. Did he feel something for her after all?

Molly barely registered the front door being opened and Steve coming in, too lost in her own thoughts to listen.

"Hello love. Bad day at work?" Steve asked, noting the now nearly empty bottle of wine sitting on the counter next to her.

"Huh?" Molly gasped ,startled by Steve's voice, "Emm, yeah, you could say that." She said, taking another gulp of wine. She was going to need all the courage she could get to tell Steve what she had decided. She would let him down easy; he was a sweet man, after all, and would understand. Maybe.

"Are you okay, Molls?" Steve asked, ever the considerate person that he was.

"Well, actually, Sherlock came into work today, and…I've been thinking."

"Ah, yes, that detective guy; the one that you had a crush on. Why'd he come into your work?" He asked, shifting his weight and looking at Molly intently.

"He was on a case. Alright, now just listen and don't get mad because I do care for you, I _really _do, but I miss London so much, and well, I…"

"It's okay, Molly," Steve cut her off, "You don't need to say it. You see, you are Sherlock Holmes' weak spot; his Achilles heel. And, quite frankly, you're terribly useful to us." He intoned, suddenly changing his demeanour and becoming menacing not caring.

"W-what?" Molly stammered, taken aback by Steve's harsh tone and the way he changed so quickly. He was no longer standing sheepishly and shifting his weight; he now stood up straight, a seemingly hungry glint in his eye.

"Oh, have I surprised you, Molls? I've been playing house with you ,and quite frankly, it's been horrible. You are such an abhorrent creature, Molly. Always so predictable and caring. I've been waiting on Sherlock finding you, and now that he has, I can put my plan into action, if you like, with _you." _He punctuated each sentence with a step towards Molly until he was cowering over her small frame just inches from her face.

Molly's brain was foggy with the alcohol making the current situation all the more confusing, "Please, Steve, just talk sense, w-what's g-going on?"

Steve grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her up, roughly shoving her back against the wall. Molly's head smacked against something hard and her vision went blurry. Her arm burned with pain as he twisted it behind her back, and tears threatened to drop from her eyes as she squirmed in his iron grip.

"My name is not _Steve_." He spat, making sure that Molly could not escape.

"Who are you?" Molly said timidly, struggling to keep tears from streaming down her cheeks.

"My name is Sebastian Moran, and don't you forget it." Moran said, grinning as he shoved a needle roughly into Molly's leg, just enough to knock her out.

He wanted her to be awake for the next bit.

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	8. Chapter 7

**A/N - Again, a abig thankyou to all who reviewed last chapter! - mycatsaninja47, Myseybee, magicstrikes, MadAsAHatterJayy, xvxv, daisherz365, lililoop, foreversherlock, patemalah21, FrancisLovey, TheDayItRayne's, Stellagale, almightswot (X2) and louisethelibrarian. Thankyou all you wondeful people!**

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**Disclaimer - I still don't own Sherlock, but I can dream...**

The minute Sherlock got back to 221b Baker Street, he stormed to his room and shut the door with a lot more force than was necessary. He was going to need some time to organise his thoughts, and the sooner he did it, the easier they would be to delete.

He walked over to his bed and lay down in the middle of it, his hands clasped together under his chin and his face retorted into the familiar setting of concentration as he entered his mind palace. Sorting through his mind palace had always been a calming past time for Sherlock. Sifting through the delicate layers of information that he held in his head had always been able to help him relax.

But not now.

His mind palace had been broken into, so to speak, by Molly Hooper. She was everywhere. There was a trace of her in _every room_. Take, for instance, his room dedicated to tropical diseases; Molly had no right being there-she had absolutely nothing to do with his research on the topic - but there she was, sitting in a chair in the corner of the room reading a heavy book on tropical ailments and how to cure them. As he entered the room, she looked up and smiled at him-one of those smiles that seemed to literaly brighten the area.

Sherlock quickly backed out and shut the door firmly behind him. She shouldn't be here; she... she _couldn't_ be here! He was the only person that ever entered his mind palace; all the others were simply imaginings, a fictional presence of the real person that he had stored for some reason or another...so what was the reason behind imagining _Molly_?

Sherlock quickly walked down the hall of his mind palace, ignoring the pictures on the walls. Why?

They were all of Molly.

All of them pictures that he had stored to memory at some point, although he couldn't remember when. There was one of Molly in the morgue looking over a cadaver with a keen eye, one of her sitting at her desk completely immersed in paperwork, one of her smiling up at him after he had delivered a lengthy deduction about a man's cause of death, and finally, one of her face on the night he needed her help.

She had been so scared that night ,and yet she hadn't even hesitated; she had helped him when no-one else would, and for that, Sherlock was eternally thankful. She had shown trust when others doubted him, and most of all, she had always _believed_ in him-not once questioning his plan.

Abruptly, he stopped walking and looked at the photo a while longer. He looked, _really_ looked, and remembered that night. He felt his chest tighten as he thought about the look in her eyes. He shook his head quickly and walked straight on to his favourite room, the study.

He opened the door with a flourish, and upon seeing it unoccupied, locked it shut behind him. This was his favourite room for thinking, and he didn't want to be disturbed by...her. He strode over to the plush armchair that dominated the room and quickly took to thinking upon his current situation.

The facts were obvious. He did care for Molly Hooper...but was it more than that? Was he even capable of more than that?

He had never ventured into the world of relationships before; he had deemed it an unnecessary distraction. After all, he lived for the thrill of adventure and the joy of figuring out puzzles others thought unsolvable; relationships were not his area. Still, he found himself thinking that, hypothetically, if he _were_ to enter a relationship...it would most likely be with Molly. _But why_?

She is a smart woman who, even in the direst of situations, can find something to be happy about. She has a sort of quiet courage that is clear to see when she is determined to accomplish something. She is also a noted academic- the youngest female pathologist in London- and she is a beautiful woman, but nobody appreciates that. Especially not him... right?

Sherlock groaned. _When did I get so sentimental? _He thought, exiting his mind palace having achieved absolutely nothing. He had thought going through his thoughts would get rid of that peculiar feeling in his chest, the one that had manifested itself ever since he had seen Molly in Edinburgh, but it hadn't helped at all; if anything, it had made it worse.

The feeling was now more prominent as Sherlock admitted he did care for the small pathologist, but it didn't make it any easier to swallow. He finally made a move and exited his bedroom. He would work on the case; that would distract him from this whole mess. He scoffed at the irony of the situation; he was now using a case to distract him from his feelings, how peculiar.

Upon entering the living room, he really wished he hadn't bothered. Mycroft was sitting sipping tea and eyeing up a tray of scones, obviously left by Mrs Hudson, with John standing nervously by the window.

"Ah hello dear brother, it's nice to see you." Mycroft said with the faintest hint of sarcasm edging into his carefully controlled tone.

"Cut to the chase, Mycroft, what are you here for?" Sherlock said sharply. He was already in a mood, and his brother would not make things better.

"I came to see you, of course. How is the case; I believe you were in Edinburgh, yes?"

"You know we were in Edinburgh. Are you here just to aggravate me, or is there a reason for your visit?"

Mycroft shifted in his chair and placed his teacup neatly on its saucer; he brought out a large file from his side and held it out to Sherlock, "Here. It is a file on Sebastian Moran's aliases. We have reason to believe he might be using one of them to hide. You did say to give you any leads I might obtain on him." Mycroft finished with a self satisfied smirk and gracefully crossed the room to the door, "I hope they will be of use to you. Until next time, little brother." With that_, _Mycroft flounced dramatically out of the door with a swing of his trusty umbrella.

"He is always one for theatrics, huh?" John asked, still standing by the window, subconsciously touching the crumpled piece of paper that he had hurriedly stuck in his pocket when Mycroft had showed up.

"Yes." Sherlock replied, quickly flipping open the file to scan through the pages.

John was still wondering whether or not to tell Sherlock he knew about the note.

_Best leave until after the case_, he decided.

"So, what's that, then?" John asked, gesturing to the file in Sherlock's hand.

"It is a list of Moran's known aliases. The drugs ring case will have to be put on hold; Moran is a top priority, and if I can get anything form this, then we might have a chance of finding him." Sherlock explained, tossing the file casually onto the coffee table. "But it's just a list of fake people; until we can trace where he got them from, then we are still at square one." Sherlock huffed, turning to face the back of the couch. Today had to be one of the worst days of his life. First, Molly, and now this information that provided no information; what had his brother been thinking?

John walked over to the coffee table and picked up the file. "Wow, this guy takes the prize for most aliases," He commented as he read the pages upon pages of names and identities that Moran had used, "Clark Duncan, Michael Pages, Dominic Griever, Steve Hunter... it's like a phonebook, this thing."

Sherlock whipped around and stood up lightning fast, "_What did you say_?"

"Oh, it's like a phonebook- you know, there are so many names that it kind of resembles-" John started to reply, uncertain of what had brought on his friend's change of mood.

"No, the last name you read, what was it?" Sherlock snapped impatiently at John.

"Emm, Steve… Hunter." John read aloud.

Realisation dawned on Sherlock, making his stomach drop, "Molly…" he whispered feebly.

"What?" John inquired, standing up to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"Molly, her new boyfriend- his name was Steve Hunter. John, she's in danger!" Sherlock shouted ,stumbling over to grab his coat and quickly wound his scarf around his neck.

"Surely it's just a coincidence, Sherlock. He can't possibly be with Molly."

"There is no such thing as a coincidence, John." Sherlock bellowed as he ran out of 221b.

John followed Sherlock, hurrying to keep up, and for once hoped that Sherlock was wrong.

* * *

Moran slammed the laptop shut, where he had been watching the footage from 221b, and walked over to the chair that held a bound, yet struggling, Molly Hooper.

"Looks like your fancy man is going to come and get you." He stated.

Molly didn't respond- she couldn't. Her hands were numb behind her back, and her feet were bound to the chair. Her head felt heavy to lift, and she was acutely aware of the dull ache in her arm where Moran had broken it. A sharp slap to her left cheek caused Molly to gasp in pain.

"I said, Sherlock is on his way, so we better get you ready for his arrival. Don't want him to see you looking all unharmed, now do we?" He grabbed a fistful her hair and made her look into his eyes, "Don't worry Molls, it'll all be over soon." He mocked before letting her head drop like a rag doll.

He walked over to a small table to Molly's right and picked up an ornate Swiss army knife. Molly watched out of the corner of her eye as he cleaned it, almost lovingly, and admired it in his hands. Her breathing was shallow as she realised what it was for. Her mouth was dry, her head ached, and she could only hope Sherlock would find her sooner rather than later.

"It was a gift from Jim; it's my favourite, you know. Only the best for my little Molly," He explained with mock compassion as he slowly crept towards her, "Now, you might want to scream. It makes it more enjoyable on my part."

A mere two hours later, and Molly lay battered and bruised on the cold concrete floor. A seemingly deadly amount of blood was pooling around her, but no, she was not dead yet- just unconscious; Moran still had to make full use of her. He would ruin Sherlock Holmes if it was the last thing he ever did.

He cleaned off his hands on a rag and fetched his phone.

MOLLY IS WAITING FOR YOU. ABANDONED BARNTON HOTEL, COME QUICK, SHE DOESN'T HAVE LONG LEFT - MORAN

He typed out the message and clicked send.

Now the real fun begins.

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	9. Chapter 8

**A/N - You lovely reviewers! - Myseybee, mycatsaninja47, magicstrikes, MadAsAHatterJayy, lililoop, Ssmill, friend2friend1, FrancisLovey, Guest, Rose DeTyler, Lono, louisethelibrarian, TheDayItRayne's and patemalah21! Thankyou for your continuing reviews! All are very much appreciated :)**

**This chapter, yeah, don't hate me, please. Enjoy!**

**Thanks to my beta again, TruffleHead.**

**Disclaimer - Its funny, but I still don't own Sherlock.**

John rushed out of 221b and joined Sherlock on the street.

"Now wait just a minute Sherlock; think this through!" John sighed, "If it _is_ Moran-"

"Which it is." Sherlock snapped, interrupting.

"Alright," John said, nodding his approval, "It is Moran, okay, but how are we going to get there in time? It takes 8 _hours_ to get there, Sherlock; what happens to Molly if we're late?"

"He'll wait. He needs something from Molly, or she would be dead already. There's something I'm missing! What could he possibly need Molly for?" Sherlock muttered as he typed furiously on his phone, "And you're right, John, it does take too long to get there; however, I believe Mycroft will be able to help us."

As he spoke, a smart black town car pulled up to the kerb and the door opened to allow them inside. Sliding onto the seat, Sherlock turned his attention back to his phone. "John, phone Lestrade and inform him of the situation. Get him to send a squad up to assist us; we will need help bringing Moran down."

"No, we

can't, Sherlock. Greg doesn't have any power up there; we're going to have to call the Scottish police and see if they can help."

"No. I am _not_ dealing with incompetent policemen; the situation is dangerous enough. Phone Mycroft. Tell him we require back-up as well." Sherlock said with a hint of disgust. He hated having to ask his brother for help.

"Emm, okay, I'll phone him." John acquiesced.

Two hours later, the car was travelling alarmingly fast down the motorway. They had made record time getting out of London and were now well on their way to Edinburgh. Sherlock was still staring blankly out of the window, so John assumed that he must have entered his mind palace. To fill the time, John had been doing some thinking of his own.

"Sherlock?" John asked tentatively; he didn't know if his friend would even hear him.

"Sherlock?" John said more forcibly, this time earning a grunt of recognition from his companion. "I've been thinking."

Sherlock turned to face him and regarded him with a withering glare, "Really, John, this isn't the time. I'm working on a plan to rescue Molly from Moran. If only I knew what he needed her for," He grumbled, more to himself, now, "Then I could figure out how to best him."

"You see, that's what I've been thinking about." John announced, "I know what he needs her for."

"I doubt that, John." Sherlock commented, turning back to the window dismissively.

"No, Sherlock, listen to me- really listen, and for goodness sake, _don't_ interrupt half way through." John took a deep breath before he continued, "I found the note Molly gave you and I know, I _know_ I shouldn't have read it but I did, and I think that is the reason Moran wants Molly."

"Oh, please John. A note does not merit kidnapping someone." Sherlock replied with a snort.

"I told you not to interrupt me. No, the note itself doesn't, but what it _caused_ does. You care for her, Sherlock; don't deny it. It's more than that, though. When you found the note, I reckon it caused something to change in you; maybe you suddenly realised what she meant to you, although that would be a miracle, but since then you've been going from case to case trying to forget about it.

"When we met Molly in Edinburgh the first time, you refused to tell me what you spoke about and you practically froze at the sight of her. You didn't do that before, but you do it now. That note must've changed you, and that's the reason Moran has Molly. Sherlock, he knows how you feel about her." John took another deep breath, "Right, you can speak now."

"You're right, John." Sherlock answered simply.

"What?! "John exclaimed, incredulously. _He_ knew his theory was right, but he hadn't expected Sherlock to admit it so easily.

"I do care for her. A... great deal more than I am used to caring for anyone." He paused, seemingly trying to collect himself. "I suppose I knew this is why he had kidnapped her, but I didn't _want_ it to be true." He looked up at John, and the doctor realized how _scared_ he was. "This is not me, John. I don't _feel_. I don't care about people this way. But I care for Molly. I don't know how, John, how to cope with all these... _feelings_! So it's better... better to simply shut them out."

"No. It's not, Sherlock. You need to deal with this, or Molly is going to get seriously hurt. If not by Moran, then by _you_."

John's words shocked Sherlock. He was right, of course he was right. If Sherlock didn't act on these feelings, then Molly would end up getting hurt by him.

"I have a plan, John, but it's...risky." Sherlock turned to face John as he stared at him.

"Tell me." John demanded.

* * *

Molly awoke, not to sunlight and an arm around her, but to harsh concrete and the taste of blood in her mouth. She coughed weakly as she tried to open her eyes. Her vision was hazy; she surmised she must have been out for a while, possibly even for hours.

As her eyes began to focus, she became aware of the blood pooling on the floor around her. She didn't remember much about what had happened, but she remembered the pain. The worst pain that she had ever felt radiating through her body until all she could feel was the darkness.

She attempted to move just a fraction, but decided against it when her very flesh cried out against her. She let out a strangled scream as pain shot through her back. She collapsed back to the floor and took a deep breath.

It didn't take long for her mind to return, and when it did, she took a second to assess her body. By her estimation, she had at least two broken ribs, a broken arm, and she couldn't feel her left ankle. Her whole body was covered in small cuts and there was a bump forming on the back of her head.

She gathered her strength and turned over, only to be blinded by a bright light being shone directly into her face.

"Ah, you're awake," Moran crooned, "Just in time, too. Are you sure you're up for this? Oh, who am I kidding; of course you are! He'll be here in about two minutes, I think, so get ready."

Molly couldn't believe he was actually coming. She hoped he had some sort of plan, or she wasn't getting out alive. A stray tear ran down her face and merged with the red on her cheek.

"Oh, here he comes, now! I'm so excited!" Moran exclaimed giddily. He acted like Moriarty, but it was all for show. He wasn't like him; he just wanted to hang on to any trace of him.

Sherlock whipped around the corner and opened the door to the abandoned hotel. The building hadn't been touched for years, and every nook and cranny was covered in a thick layer of dust. Well, except from a clear circle in the middle of the reception area where Molly Hooper lay on the cold floor.

"Molly?" Sherlock asked, not willing to believe what he was seeing. It couldn't be her; he couldn't accept that it was her. It was not _his_ pathologist lying battered on the floor; it just couldn't be.

Molly rolled over and grunted with the pain, "Sherlock?" she said with a look of utter disbelief.

It was her.

Sherlock rushed forward towards her broken body, intent on just getting her out of here, whatever the cost, but he was stopped by a sing song voice echoing around the empty room.

"Ah-ah-ah!" Moran exclaimed as he walked out of the shadows, "Tut tut Mr. Genius, you should've known I wouldn't let you get to her that easily."

"Moran, let her go. You don't need her anymore, you've got me." Sherlock pleaded, struggling to keep his features neutral.

"No, Sherlock, that's not how it works. You are going to listen to me, then I'm going to kill Molly, and then, do you know what? I'm going to kill you."

"You don't need her. You don't need to do this, Moran. You are trying to keep Moriarty alive, but he's _dead_. He killed himself; you know this."

"I SAID I WAS GOING TO TALK." Moran shouted, "And you are going to listen, or Molly gets it." Moran reached into his pocket and brought out his gun, pointing it directly at Molly but keeping Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock gulped as he realised how unstable Moran was. He was obviously struggling with Moriarty's death, and that had sent him off the rails. There was the faint smell of alcohol coming from him, and his hand that was holding the gun was shaking uncontrollably. The man was a bomb wound tightly around a false sense of reality; one wrong move from Sherlock and he went off.

"You see, you took Jim from me. You took him, and now I'm going to take Molly, because you care for her, don't you? DON'T YOU?" Moran hollered, his breathing uneven. Now faced with his enemy, Sherlock Holmes, he was starting to lose it. Blind sighted by the mere thought of getting revenge for Moriarty's death.

"Yes." Sherlock answered simply. He looked to Molly, who was now looking up at him, astonished. At some point she had shifted and was now crouched on all fours, slightly doubled over from the pain but determined to get up.

"Molly, stay down." Sherlock commanded, looking back to Moran.

Molly shook her head, not trusting her voice, but stayed put, the pain overwhelming her as she listened to Sherlock.

"Yes, I do care for her, but not in the same way that you cared for Moriarty. Killing Molly isn't going to do anything; just let her go."

"No, because you took Jim away from me, and now I can take Molly away from you. I never saw what Jim liked about her, even in the end he never put a sniper on her. He said she was special, but she's _not_; do you hear? She is _not _special. I'm special; I am so much more than her." Moran screamed, waving the gun about wildly before looking at Molly in disgust and taking aim on her, "I am so. Much. MORE"

"NO!" Sherlock roared as two distinct gunshots went off.

Moran looked at Sherlock before he slumped to the floor, the life flowing out of him as his body fell.

John walked out from behind Moran, holding his gun in one hand. "Shoot him before he shoots Molly; that was the plan, right?"

A shower of relief washed over Sherlock at the sight of his blogger. A scream brought him back to the present.

Molly.

Sherlock crouched down beside her and held her in his arms.

"Sherlock?" Molly wheezed as she lifted her hand from her abdomen. Her hand was covered in blood; a ragged gun shot wound scarred her stomach.

The second gun shot; Moran had managed to shoot Molly before John had shot him. No, not Molly, not now.

"Molly, stay with me, you are not leaving me now, don't you dare. Don't you dare." Sherlock pleaded as Molly smiled faintly in his arms.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." Molly said, slowly closing her eyes.

"No, not now, not after all this. You are not leaving me now Molly; I mean it. John, call an ambulance." Sherlock ordered as he grabbed Molly and carried her out of the sordid building.

He would not lose her now.

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	10. Chapter 9

**A/N - Hello! Its been a while, thankyou to the reviewers - magicstrikes, Guest, patemalah21, chironsgirl, Myseybee, MadAsAHatterJayy, MorbidbyDefault, louisethelibrarian, Ssmill, daisherz365, Rose DeTyler, Guest, TheDayItRayne's, pretty please and TheGoldenHairedMockingjay - All your reviews make me smile like an idiot :)**

**It's almost midnight here but I wanted to post this! On a side note my beta is off on holiday so I have enlisted a trusted friend as my beta, thanks to her.**

**Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer - I don't own Sherlock.**

The waiting room was small and boxy. Clinical white walls clashed with well worn blue carpet tiles. A few pictures, all of flowers or cute animals, were hanging at odd angles on the furthest away wall and a meagre four, hard plastic chairs were gathered around a simple, yet functional, wooden coffee table. The room was supposed to be intimate and cosy, Sherlock supposed, reserved for concerned family members to huddle together and seek refuge with each other as they faced whatever travesty had befallen them but the room was nothing more than a cell. A cell to contain the grief of families so that it did not spread to other parts of the hospital and infect them. At this moment in time the cell contained Sherlock Holmes, so the poor staff working in the hospital could get on with their respective jobs uninterrupted.

It had been four hours since Molly was wheeled into surgery and Sherlock was at the end of his tether. Being placed in this room made him feel like a caged animal and did not offer him any small comfort to help how he was feeling. He paced the small waiting room over and over again, muttering to himself as he went until John had managed to wrestle him into a chair and force him to sit still.

John was not taking this any easier but he remained calm and thought logically about what had happened; he was a _doctor_ after all. The ambulance had showed up quickly, the gun shot wound was in her lower abdomen meaning it should have missed any vital organs so she should be fine, she would be ok, she had to be, not just for herself but for Sherlock. John wasn't sure what Sherlock would resort to should she die, he wasn't sure if he could handle _that _again.

John spared a glance at his friend sitting in the chair next to his. He was still restless, changing position every few minutes or so trying to think of anything but Molly, although failing miserably.

There was a slim chance she would get through this, but only slim and he knew it. She had already lost a substantial amount of blood _before _the gunshot wound never mind after it. He thought that maybe the cuts that covered her body were superficial but a few looked deep enough to cause real damage. He cursed under his breath and looked up to the tiled ceiling noting its uneven surface and cracked corners.

He hadn't been able to get a proper look at Molly before the paramedics took her away. She was wheeled quickly into the ambulance and then even _more_ quickly into the operating room. The only thing he knew was that she was unconscious, she had passed out in his arms in the hotel, but she was a fighter. Even after all she had been through she still kept smiling, she still put on a brave face; could she do that now?

Did he dare allow himself to hope? Hope that she might be ok? Hope that she wouldn't blame him for what had happened? Hope that he could see her smile again?

Sherlock groaned in frustration and twisted in his seat. He knocked Johns arm and awakened the doctor, who had nodded off, exhaustion catching up with him. How he could sleep in this situation Sherlock did not know.

John blinked furiously and rubbed his eyes, it had been a long few days and all he really wanted to do was curl up in a dark corner and hibernate until this whole ordeal was over, "Any news?" He asked quietly, still shaking off the remnants of his uneasy slumber.

"None." Sherlock answered while he gazed out into space, he didn't know what else he could do. For the first time in his life Sherlock was powerless, he had no control over the situation and it frustrated him greatly. He could not deduce; he could not use his talent to save her. He just had to sit and wait like an ordinary person, he couldn't do _anything._

"Look," John started picking up on his friends worry, "She'll be fine, the shot shouldn't have hit any vital organs and it was a small calibre. She'll be back in the morgue in no time."

"It could have hit her kidneys. She could be bleeding out in there John and there is nothing I can do, _nothing." _Sherlock retorted. His mood was worsening by the second and he if he didn't get any news soon he would go mad.

"It didn't. Try not to worry Sherlock; it won't do you any good." John tried to sound sympathetic and patted Sherlock on the shoulder unsure on how to proceed, he had never had to comfort Sherlock before.

"Don't sound so sure John." Sherlock spoke quickly and solemnly as if he had already resigned himself to the worst possible outcome.

John was upset not just for Molly but for Sherlock too. The man finally admits he cares about another person and then stands to lose it all. He was sad and angry and worried but he couldn't let it show, the roles had been reversed and now John had to maintain his composure while Sherlock struggled with his emotions.

"It will all be fine, it will all be okay." John comforted as best he could.

"It has been four hours John, nearly five, that's too long." Sherlock muttered and even John couldn't argue with that.

The two men sat in silence for another hour, neither one seeing the need to talk each other, lost in a world of their own emotions.

Another 45 minutes had past when there was a soft knock at the door. A large, kindly nurse entered and sat down opposite Sherlock and John eyeing them carefully.

"What is it? What's happened?" Sherlock asked almost immediately after the nurse had settled. He leaned forward in his seat and scanned the nurse. _Small indents around the wrists; types at a computer often. Hands clean and soft looking; doesn't work in surgery. Glasses, at least prescription 1.20; strain from computer screen caused slight loss of sight. _He knew enough, she didn't actually work in surgery, most likely worked as a reception nurse, a dogsbody, told only what she needed to pass on and left to deal with the friends and families.

"Are you Ms Hooper's family?" she asked with a calm tone of voice.

"Dr Hooper and yes, now tell us, what has happened?" Sherlock spoke quickly and precisely. He wanted to know what had happened to Molly and wasn't about to waste time over menial matters.

"The doctors wanted me to tell you that she _is _stable but has lost a lot of blood. There is also substantial damage to her physically not to mention mentally. They've put her into a medically-induced coma to give her the best chance of recovery." The nurse explained, "It really is for the best. She should be awake with the next week and a half."

"Will she be ok, I mean, she is going to live, yeah?" John asked as Sherlock slumped back into his chair.

"We hope so. She's doing well and she's a fighter, so the odds are in her favour but I'm afraid it's a bit of a waiting game from now on." she said looking from Sherlock to John not entirely sure which one of the men to address.

"Can we see her?" Sherlock asked the nurse, if he could see her he could deduce her and that would ease his worry, he knew it would.

"Not just now I'm afraid. She's still in intensive care and won't be allowed visitors for another few days. I know it's a lot to swallow but we are doing our best for her, I assure you.", and with that the kindly nurse stood and exited the room, leaving the men alone once again.

"She'll be alright, won't she John?" Sherlock asked, as he looked into John eyes with so much feeling that he did not look like Sherlock Holmes, he looked _lost._

"Yeah mate," John answered, "She'll be fine."

It was two days until Sherlock was allowed to visit Molly, even then it was only with Mycroft's interference. Mycroft was unfortunately very good at knowing people who could get you into places where you are not supposed to be.

Sherlock walked into the room cautiously, he had told John to wait outside as he wanted to do this by himself. A nurse was standing at the end of Molly's bed but quickly dismissed herself as he came in.

Molly herself was sleeping soundly nestled in a bed of white cotton and wires. She was hooked up to multiple machines which beat out a rhythm to match her heart. She looked at peace in her medicated slumber. There were no stress lines on her forehead and her breathing was soft and even.

As Sherlock ventured towards her bed he began to note her injuries. The bruises on her face and neck were healing and were now a light yellow in colour. The cuts on her body were scabbing over save for a particularly nasty one on her cheek which had needed stitches, there would probably be a faint scar left behind. Her arm lay in plaster and her ankle was lightly bandaged. Her arm was broken but by the looks of things her ankle was only slightly twisted, not as bad as her other injuries.

He sat down on the chair next to her bed and simply looked at her. She was so small, so fragile and he had allowed her to get hurt. Well, she would never be hurt again, not while he was around, he would make sure of it. No harm would come to Molly Hooper as long as she lived, he would protect her from whatever tragedy lurked around the corner, he would always be there to save her.

An overwhelming, now all too familiar, feeling began in his chest and rose up to conquer his throat. He did care for his pathologist. He _more _than cared about her and he would tell her as soon as she was awake.

A short time later the nurse came back into the room and told him it was time to go. He stood from the chair and murmured a goodbye to Molly; he _would _see her again and soon.

As Sherlock reached the door he turned to take one last look at the small pathologist and smiled contentedly to himself, she had changed his life for the better and now _he_ would change hers.

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	11. Chapter 10

**A/N - Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou - magicstrikes, MadAsAHatterJayy, mycatsaninja47, Ssmill, MelodyHolmes, Amalia Kensington, Guest, TheGoldenHairedMockingjay, patemalah21, TheDayItRayne's, Myseybee, Rose DeTyler and foreversherlock. You people are amazing!**

**Enjoy this chapter, its the penultimate one!**

**Thanks to my beta.**

**Disclaimer - I still don't own it...**

Molly Hooper had been in a coma for three weeks now. The doctors had tried to wake her twice but she was all too content to stay in her safe state of quiet nothingness rather than wake and be forced to face the inevitable reality of her situation.

Every day she would get a visitor, sometimes two, but the shorter man always left before the taller man. The taller man would come in unannounced, sit with her for a couple of hours just listening to the machines sounding out her heartbeat and watching the soft rise of her chest as she slept, and then he would leave without saying a word.

The mysterious visitor was the favourite topic of gossip between the young nurses who would tend to Molly throughout the day. They agree the man is handsome, aloof and most certainly posh, judging by his attire. They speculate about his relationship with Molly. Some say that they are related, distant cousins or the like, that care about each other greatly, some even say he could be her uncle but that would be ridiculous. Other nurses think that they are married although they wear no rings. Others think they are partners, or perhaps just friends but none dare to approach him to find out the truth.

Sherlock can see the question on the tip of their tongues; he sees it crossing their mind when they look at him as he sits and watches Molly. If they _were_ to ask him, he doesn't know what he would say, of course he could lie; tell them they were married or that they were partners but what's the point? They needn't know any of this; they should concentrate on their jobs and less on idle gossip.

He wishes Molly would wake up. He wishes she would make a miraculous recovery and return to being what Molly Hooper was but he knows he is asking too much. Despite what others may think he does understand basic human emotions, he knows how they work and how they make a person feel and especially how they can affect a person, that's why he shuts himself off from his feelings so that they do not affect him. However, he knows that Molly will have changed, no matter how slight, because he knows that a person who has been through what Molly has _has _to change to deal with their life as it is now. He just wishes that Molly wouldn't.

He has thought of many things over the hours he has spent with Molly during the past few weeks. He has thought about his life and where it is headed. He thought about his past days as a consulting detective, the days before the fall, everything had been so simple back then.

He has thought about the life he could have. Would Molly even want to be with him?

He put such a trivial thought to the back of his mind and focused on the here and now. There was no immediate danger facing him, Moran had been dealt with and Sherlock had been reliably informed by Mycroft that the body had also been properly _dealt_ with, so Sherlock was able to focus all his energy on Molly.

He had been sitting with her for forty minutes when a small nurse entered the hospital room to check Molly's vitals and mark up her chart. Sherlock took to staring out of the window opposite him when nurses came in, _no need to fuel gossip, _he thought.

This particular nurse had been in a few times during his visits. Her nametag read 'Miranda' and she was of average intelligence._ Most likely suffered from mild OCD judging by how she always methodically carried out her duties and her dress was impeccable, not a single stain or crease. Single, only child, dad died when she was a teenager, allergic to shellfish. _Sherlock had gotten used to deducing the different nurses that tended to Molly; it kept his mind sharp since he was not taking any cases from Lestrade while Molly was in hospital.

Sherlock was startled when he heard a crash. Miranda had dropped Molly's chart and was now blushing wildly and scrambling for the fallen clipboard, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to startle you, I'm really very sorry!"

Sherlock just waved his hand dismissively and continued staring into space; he didn't feel the need to speak.

"Are you ok?" Miranda asked quietly, she wasn't sure she actually wanted to talk to this stranger who the nurses often talked about; something had always seemed a bit off about him if you asked her.

"Yes, I'm fine." Sherlock answered.

Miranda looked sincerely at Sherlock, "She will be okay you know," she said. She was new to the job and had never really dealt with the relatives of patients, if that was what he was.

"And how do you know?" said Sherlock as he stared at the young nurse.

"Sometimes the patients respond to voices. Perhaps if you were to talk to her she might start to wake up." Miranda had heard of a couple of cases where coma patients woke up to the sound of their loved ones maybe it would work here. Clearly, this man _needed_ Molly and if she woke up then maybe he would be a bit happier, "Talk to her, about anything really, it's worth a shot, right?"

Sherlock scoffed, "Hardly."

The young nurse looked taken aback by Sherlock's brash attitude, surely if he cared for her he would do anything to help her, that's what you're supposed to do, she believed, for those you care about you are supposed to do anything, that's how it worked but obviously not for him.

"Well, there's no change in her condition. I'll see you next time." Miranda scuttled out of the room as if the floor was filled with hot coals. Something about that man unnerved her and she wasn't going to stay to find out what.

Sherlock mulled over what the nurse had said. He had looked into theories about talking to a comatose person. Hearing is often the last sense to go and the first to return, would Molly be able to hear him? People who were in a coma could often hear the world around them but they couldn't respond to it so what would be the point, it would be like talking to a brick wall. He could always play the violin it would help him think and perhaps she would hear it too. But, no, he didn't have his violin with him. He could conduct an experiment. Yes, that was it! An experiment, into the hearing abilities of comatose patients.

"Molly," he started, "I'm going to talk to you, well more at you, to see if you respond to my voice." He leaned forward from the chair and took Molly's hand in his own, "If you can hear me try to squeeze my hand. You've been in a coma for three weeks now, you lost a lot of blood but you're healing. The cuts are almost away and you can't see the bruises anymore. Moran is gone, _really _gone, and I won't let you get hurt again, I _promise._"

Molly was slightly aware of a faint light through her eyelids. It wasn't bright but it was there. Where was she? She tried to open her eyes but couldn't, her eyelids were heavy and she didn't have enough energy to bother. She was aware of her body, which was good, she could feel it but couldn't move it, this was strange. She could hear a slight steady beeping in the background. Then she heard _his _voice…

"So Mycroft dealt with that. John is ok but says I need to eat more, he always does. I told Lestrade I'm not taking any cases until your better or at least out of hospital."

So that's where she was, a hospital. Why was she in a hospital? Oh, Steve, no Moran, he had shot her. She wasn't aware of any pain though. She mentally groaned, if she could just move, open her eyelids, something then this would all be much easier.

"You're sister has been in, briefly. I don't like her, she's cheating on her husband by the way, but you probably didn't want to know that. She asked who I was and I said your partner, she looked confused but bought it. The nurses also wonder who I am but I haven't spoken to them much other than to ask if you're okay."

She didn't like her sister either, too much bickering when they were younger. Sherlock's voice was getting clearer as her hearing came back but why was he here, as far as molly could recall he wasn't the caring type.

"I have been thinking, Molly. John was the first to notice, in Edinburgh, and then Moran figured it out before I could. What I am trying to say is that I _care _for you Molly, I _more than care _for you. It's a different kind of caring to what I feel for John or Mrs Hudson and it took me a while to figure it out and for that I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything."

Molly tried desperately to move but she just couldn't. The man she had loved for three years had just admitted to feeling _something _for her, she had to move!

She gathered her strength and slowly opened her eyes. The light was bright but comforting, being in the dark had always frightened Molly but seeing the light meant she was alive, she had survived. As her eyes adjusted she could make out the shape of the tiles on the roof, to her right was a swarm of machines tracking her heartbeat and various other outputs. She looked down her bed to see a mop of black curls, Sherlock.

Sherlock was sitting holding her hand, not on her bed, but very close. He had pulled the chair over but was looking intently at her hand. He caressed her fingers and turned her hand over in his, looking at each digit as if it were some fascinating medical discovery.

Her senses returned to her quickly. Hearing, then sight, touch, smell and finally taste. She coughed shallowly, her throat was dry.

Sherlock's head whipped up at the sound and he gazed at her open eyes, "Molly?"

Molly coughed again and Sherlock was quick to act, fetching a glass of water and helping her to drink. Once Molly had had enough he placed the glass on her bedside table and looked at her expectantly.

"Hello," Molly managed weakly her voice felt strange coming from her mouth as if she hadn't spoken in weeks.

"Your awake, finally," Sherlock sighed. He couldn't help the swell in his chest at the sight of her now open eyes, she was _definitely_ going to be alright, "Do you remember what happened?"

Molly looked at Sherlock for a second longer, "Yes."

"Good, that's good."

"Did you really mean what you said Sherlock?" Molly asked, her eyes shutting as the strain started to catch up with her.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered. He had meant it, _all of it._

Molly smiled a genuine, bright smile that she reserved only for Sherlock. Sherlock smiled back as Molly yawned softly.

"Go back to sleep Molly, you need rest," he said as he gently kissed her forehead.

Molly nodded and closed her eyes gently. In a few days she would be better, and then, she would finally have the world's only consulting detective all to herself.

**Note - The review button is a bit sad (he's just found out there is only one more chapter) Show him some love , please?**


	12. Epilogue

**A/N - Thankyou to my continued reviwers! - MadAsAHatterJayy, magicstrikes, TheGoldenHairedMockingjay, patemalah21, Rose DeTyler, and Myseybee. You have all gotten me through this story!**

**Thanks to Trufflehead, for all her amazing work and my other beta for stepping in!**

**Enjoy some fluffy cuteness, you guys deserve it!**

**Disclaimer - For the last time, I don't own it! **

6 months later…

John rounded the corner of the kitchen and walked into the living room of 221b. He collapsed down into his favoured armchair and booted up his laptop taking a sip of his tea, from his favourite teacup, while he waited. It took a while for his now out of date laptop to start. _I'll have to buy a newer one, _he thought as he placed his teacup down and readied his fingers to type.

He could just make out the muffled conversation of the two people currently occupying Sherlock's bedroom, something about "just wear my robes, I don't see what the problem is?" and then a reply which sounded a bit like "I don't want to! They don't give much coverage!" and then a sigh followed by "I don't mind that" then a shriek and "but John will." _Time to use the earplugs…again, _John huffed and stuck the two offensively pink plastic earplugs into his ears and became blissfully ignorant to the playful banter that was happening a few feet away from him.

John began tapping slowly at the keys…

'It's been a busy few months in Baker Street so that is my excuse for not updating often enough! You fans have been asking for inside information on Sherlock's recent endeavours into the realm of relationships but I honestly don't have much to tell you.

After Molly came round she was out of the hospital quickly, however her flat had been let out to a lovely young Russian couple, who offered to move but Molly turned their offer down claiming that she could find somewhere else. She ended up staying at 221b, at Sherlock's request no less, and hasn't moved since. I think it's safe to say she won't be doing any moving soon if Sherlock has anything to do with it.

I admit, it took me a while to figure it out, that Molly and Sherlock were in a relationship, but once I did I sat Sherlock down and talked to him, _properly _about it all. The man didn't know about the solar system so I was initially worried he also would not know about the birds and the bees. It was embarrassing for both parties and I have since learned never to underestimate the vast range of knowledge that Sherlock Holmes has at his disposal.

Molly has changed Sherlock. I know a lot of you expressed your concern that Sherlock might not be taking cases as much as he had been but I can assure you he has been taking all manner of cases. In fact if it is possible, he has been even more engrossed in cases that happen to come his way. He now takes on every case deemed to be a 6 or over and solves the rest of his cases from home. It's efficient and works for both of them, I think, as Molly had managed to secure her job back as a pathologist at 's hospital. This suits Sherlock just fine as he now gets easy access to a spectrum of different body parts, rare ailments and run of the Molly's lab for some of his more _daring _experiments, which does keep the kitchen cleaner.

There is another aspect in which Sherlock has changed; he is now tidier. The kitchen resembles a kitchen for once, bar the microscope and few petri dishes that he keeps in the fridge. The living room is dust free thanks to Molly and Mrs Hudson's 'spring clean' and there is no longer any mould growing underneath the bathroom sink. It is safe to say these are improvements that we are all thankful for.

Their relationship is a strange one though. They don't go on dates, and when they do it's normally to the lab to check out cultures or to a take out restaurant after Sherlock has finished being brilliant on a case. They do argue however and it is really hard to hide a smile when Molly wins; you should see the look on Sherlock's face!

I have also learned not to investigate loud noises or crashes in the night anymore as I most likely do _not _want to know what's going on. I've made the mistake twice of walking into their room unannounced _twice_ now and I will not be making it again lest I want to clean my eyes with bleach.

That's about as much as I know about their relationship, I'm sorry I couldn't tell you more. Sherlock genuinely cares for her. Sometimes I catch him looking at her in that way, you know, glancing at her when he thinks she's not looking. Sneaking the odd look at her when she's reading or cooking or working on the dead. I hope the relationship works out for the both of them, I really do, they deserve each other.

On another note, myself and the lovely Mary Morstan have recently gotten engaged! She doesn't like me writing about her on this blog so that is all I shall divulge of _my_ relationship.

I will hopefully have an update on a case soon, the one we are on at the moment is quite peculiar and will make an interesting one for you to read.'

John finished his blog entry and posted it, he then shut his laptop, took his earplugs out and sat back in his chair all in time to see Molly hurry out of her _and _Sherlock's bedroom tugging a cardigan around her shoulders.

"Morning John," she said as she buttoned up her cardigan quickly missing out the bottom two buttons completely.

"Morning," John replied picking up the newspaper and hiding behind it. If Sherlock was going to come out semi-naked and shower Molly in a crass display of affection John refused to be witness to it, not after last time.

"Molly, why do you have to leave so early?" crooned the detective who was thankfully fully clothed and watching Molly hurriedly put her coat on, "Your shift doesn't start for another twenty minutes?"

"Yes, but it takes time to get there and a certain person has already distracted me this morning making me late as it is!" Molly glared pointedly at Sherlock who rolled his eyes at her angry look.

"Take a cab," he reasoned.

"No," said Molly as she gathered things into her over-sized bag, "And before you say it, no, not because they are expensive but because I am only a 10 minute walk from the hospital and I shouldn't _need _to take a cab when I can walk."

"Fine," the detective said huffily as he walked into the living room completely discarding John's existence as he did often enough that John should not be surprised.

"I'll be home by five tonight, do you want me to bring back a Chinese?" she asked as she slung her bag over her shoulder.

"That would be lovely Molly," replied John, he couldn't remember the last time he had enjoyed a good Chinese.

"Okay I'll get your usual John, yeah," to which John nodded, "Sherlock, want anything?

Sherlock thought for a minute and then mumbled, "Sweet and sour pork," and then added as an afterthought, "please."

"Of course, see you guys later," Molly said as she opened the door and stepped onto the landing.

"Molly!" Sherlock called.

"What?" Molly replied peeking her head around the door.

Sherlock tapped his cheek expectantly and waited until Molly had kissed him delicately on the cheek, "Have a nice day," he said, smirking to himself as Molly blushed a light pink.

"Goodbye Sherlock," she said with a smile as she finally exited 221b and started on her way to work.

John grinned from ear to ear as he witnessed the adorable exchange from two people that he would never have imagined in a million years doing such a thing.

"And what are you grinning at John, have you nothing better to do?" Sherlock quizzed as he noticed Johns grinning face.

John raised the newspaper in front of his face, partly so he didn't have to look at Sherlock's face and partly to hide his giggles, "Nothing, and nothing at all."

**Note - My last note *sniff* Thankyou one and all! Everyone who took the time to review, read, favourite and put this story on your alert list, I thankyou from the bottom of my heart! It's been a great few weeks and I've really enjoyed writing this! Look out for some oneshots in a variety of genres and pairings as I have multiple plot bunnies...**

**The review button is throwing an after party, so head over there have some cake, drink some punch and review, please, just for old times sake? Oh, and don't forget to say bye to the review button on your way out :)**

**Till next time, GoldenVine.**


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